


Until We Get It Right

by Songspinner



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Reconciliation, Suicidal Thoughts, Temporary Character Death, kinda? lots of deaths but none stick lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:28:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24124375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Songspinner/pseuds/Songspinner
Summary: The horrors of war are bad enough, but Felix and Dimitri learn that it can get so much worse. They die over and over again until they figure out how to move on--together.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Felix Hugo Fraldarius
Comments: 14
Kudos: 65
Collections: Dimilix Remix 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my entry for the Dimilix Remix! Based on art by @nmmais1 that is a Russian Doll-inspired piece with Dimitri and Felix in a death loop.  
> Note that this is an au with no Byleth, and Rodrigue isn't with the army; he stayed in Fraldarius to manage the territory.

_ “We shouldn’t even be here.” _

That’s what Felix told them as the army formed ranks to prepare for marching on Gronder Field. While Sylvain and Gilbert debated last-minute strategies, while the boar seethed and paced with an impatience that spilled out of him and agitated the troops, Felix spit the words at them even knowing they wouldn’t listen. Knowing it didn’t matter, because they were already here, and this battle was happening whether anyone but Dimitri wanted it to happen or not. Because the crown prince could inspire blind loyalty in everyone here just by existing--Goddess knows he didn’t  _ earn _ it--and they all followed him like cubs destined to die in the lion’s bloody wake.

Felix included.

And now destiny has caught up to them, not one by one but in droves, in huge swaths of the Kingdom army obliterated in moments by flame and darker magics, of a kind even Annette and Mercedes have never seen before. Now the battle is over, and they have lost--though, Felix thinks as he bleeds out there on the matted grass, you wouldn’t know it with the way Dimitri is still snarling and fighting to the very last, unable even to surrender or negotiate for his people’s lives in his mad rage. Felix can do nothing but watch, weak and fading quickly, as the Boar Prince struggles to stay standing--bloodied and beaten, surrounded,  _ doomed _ , yet still he lashes out with more strength than a dying man ought to have. One Imperial soldier falls to Areadbhar’s wicked blade, then another. But it’s not enough to save him, and finally, finally, he falls to his knees and can no longer rise.

Felix knows their deaths are Dimitri’s fault. He ordered them to march south for Edelgard’s head rather than take back their own fallen capital; he abandoned any semblance of strategy and rushed headlong into the fray with only his very first order to guide them.  _ Kill every last one of them. _ As tactics go, Felix thinks with a certain lightheaded amusement, it lacked nuance.

Felix knows this, and yes, he’s angry. His blood  _ boils  _ in his grief and horror _. _ He was forced to watch Ingrid fall out of the sky, shot down by Alliance snipers; to watch Sylvain ride to his death when the central hill erupted in flames he couldn’t escape; to watch Annette die in Mercedes’ arms. But his fury seems to seep out into the dirt along with his life’s blood, and in his last moments, all he feels is awe. He can’t help it. It’s impossible to watch Dimitri’s fearless last stand without admiring him. In his stubborn refusal to die, Felix almost sees the king he could have been.

_ What could have been. If only. I never wanted to die with regrets. _

It’s Felix’s last thought before the end. He doesn’t see them drive their spears into the kneeling prince; doesn’t see the Emperor herself raise her sword and plunge it through his heart; doesn’t hear Dimitri’s final howl of anguish and rage and despair ring out across the field, loud enough that even the Leicester army in their retreat hears it and knows: The rightful king is gone, and with him goes Faerghus’ last hope.

* * *

That was the first time Felix died. He’s lost track of how many more times he’s died since then.

Daybreak comes early on the morning of the battle. The Kingdom army rises with the sun, unbothered by the dawn’s chill. The cooking fires already blaze, sending the smell of stewed meat wafting over the camp. Just like always.

Felix gasps awake and immediately lets out a soft, wretched groan, dragging his hands down his face. It happened  _ again _ . He hauls himself up to prepare for battle once more--for the  _ same _ battle--and thinks that it ought to be horrifying, the extent to which he’s gotten used to remembering his own deaths, but he mostly just feels resigned. He’s learned to push the memories aside with relative ease to focus on the here and now. If ‘now’ is a word that even means anything, anymore.

All the little things stay the same each time. Annette always passes by his tent singing softly, unaware that anyone is inside to hear her. Ashe always offers him encouraging words over a shared meal. Mercedes always leads them in the traditional Faerghan battle hymn to pray to the Goddess for victory. And Sylvain always,  _ always _ makes the same stupid, macabre joke that nonetheless manages to make things seem less dire.

This time, though, something’s different. Explosively different.

He’s barely taken his first bite of stew when a wordless roar erupts from Dimitri’s tent, followed by a loud crash. Felix’s blade is immediately in his hand and he’s running before he can form a single thought, but he skids to a halt as the prince emerges from the tent by tearing it down around him with his bare hands and then stalking away from the remains, muttering to himself. Felix knows that wild, murderous look in the boar’s eye, has seen it too many times, and he knows that if Dimitri’s left to his own devices, the battle will be a complete disaster.

Ordinarily, he’d leave it alone anyway and let someone else deal with it--he has no desire to be anywhere near the prince when he’s like this. It trips something inside Felix that makes his stomach churn and his heart pound, makes it harder to breathe. This time, though, Dimitri’s muttering catches Felix’s attention with the words, “Please, if I must die, allow me to rest!”

Felix goes after him and snatches at his arm. “Wait--” For a moment, he thinks he’s made a terrible mistake, as Dimitri rounds on him with a fierce scowl, and his other hand snaps to the hilt of his sword. But the prince only glares at him for a moment before growling, “What do you want?”

Felix glares right back. “Come with me. We need to talk. Now.”

“Leave me be--”

But Felix anticipates this response and yanks on Dimitri’s arm to pull him closer, hissing, “You keep dying at Gronder and waking back up here, don’t you?”

The prince’s eye widens. “How did you know that?”

“It’s happening to me, too. Now  _ come with me _ , I’m not having this conversation out in the open.”

The set of Dimitri’s jaw is mulish, but after a moment he nods curtly and follows Felix back to his tent, which fortunately is still standing. “What do you know of this curse?”

“Nothing.” The word tastes bitter on Felix’s tongue. “All I know is that every day, we fight the Empire and the Alliance at Gronder Field, and every day I die there. And then I wake up here on this same stupid morning to do it all over again.”

Dimitri is silent for a moment, and when he speaks again, it’s so quiet that Felix barely hears it. “Is this hell?”

Felix rolls his eyes and exhales sharply through his nose. “No. Would Annette and Mercedes be in hell? Don’t be an idiot.”

A grunt is his only response before Dimitri nods to himself. “Then there is only one explanation. The dead will not allow me to move on until I have slain Edelgard and secured their vengeance.”

“Ridiculous. If that were true, why would they drag me into it?”

Dimitri’s eye roams past Felix to a corner of the tent. “...it must be Glenn’s doing.”

Felix grits his teeth. “I’m not listening to any more of this nonsense. The only way to break this cycle is not to fight the battle at all. Forget about Gronder and march back to retake Fhirdiad.”

_ "No.” _ It’s more growl than word. “I will only be allowed to rest when Edelgard is dead by my hand. We will fight this battle as many times as it takes until I tear her limb from limb.” His eye narrows as he looks down at Felix. “You are meant to be my Shield. So shield me. When we take the field, you will stay at my side and ensure that I survive to take her head from her shoulders.”

“What?” Felix blinks, stunned. Dimitri has never demanded such a thing of him, not in all the years Felix has fought under his banner. Which is not to say that Felix wouldn’t do it of his own volition, deny it though he might--but the prince he knew would never order him, or anyone, to stand between himself and danger.

“I’m finished talking.” Dimitri turns and strides out of the tent, leaving Felix to stew in his dread.

* * *

Felix has to grudgingly admit that fighting side by side, both he and Dimitri are more effective, as they have always been. The prince plows his way through enemy ranks, opening a path for Felix to slip easily past their guard and take down key soldiers. And although it hurt, hearing that Dimitri values Edelgard’s death more than Felix’s life, he does keep his would-be king alive long enough to face down the Emperor and that cursed sword of hers. A Hero’s Relic, clearly, but somehow stranger and more deadly even than Areadbhar, extending like a whip and eerily reminiscent of a spine. He’d be intrigued, if it didn’t keep killing them. Their brutal exchange ends in a stalemate, and that shadowy lapdog of Edelgard’s teleports them both off the field as the Imperial forces retreat.

Felix steels himself for Dimitri’s tantrum, and he doesn’t have long to wait.

In a sickening way, it reminds Felix of the time when one of Dimitri’s favorite horses escaped into Fhirdiad’s surrounding woods when they were children. The king sent knights out to scour the forest for the beast, but they never found it. At first, the little prince just cried, devastated at the loss. But when he found out which stablehand had neglected to close the stall properly, he stormed off to find the man and shouted at him for a good five minutes, sobbing all the while and breaking half the gear in the stables as he smashed things and flung them around with his Blaiddyd strength that even at that age was formidable.

He would later learn to control his emotional outbursts better, but he was never a  _ calm _ child.

The difference is that now, Dimitri’s tantrums include threatening his own allies and ripping apart people who are already dead with his bare hands, gauntlets sticky with drying blood. The difference is that now, Felix can’t say with certainty that the prince wouldn’t slaughter his own people in a blind rage. So he keeps his sword drawn even after the enemy is gone, and he waits until the lion’s roar quiets to a growl. Finally, Dimitri’s temper dies down and he just stands there, panting for breath, looking at no one and nothing. Everyone but Felix has backed off to a safe distance to go about the business of vacating the battlefield, whether because they’re terrified of their own ruler or because they want to give him the space he always demands, or a little of both.

So when Dimitri walks up to Felix with his lance still in hand and hisses, “We’re going back.  _ Now. _ ”, no one else is close enough to see Felix’s eyes widen and then narrow in quick succession.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“What do you  _ think _ it means?” Dimitri rests the butt of Areadbhar in the dirt and draws his sword with the other hand.

“You’re out of your damned mind _. _ ” Felix scowls at the trembling in his hands, clutching his sword as though it were a lifeline. “What do you expect to do, kill each other right here?” That single blue eye just stares at him in silence. “What a fool you are. We survived the battle, isn’t that good enough for you? Do you  _ want _ to be stuck in this nightmare forever?”

Dimitri simply raises his blade. Would the prince really strike him down? There’s no way of knowing whether this would work, or whether they would just die. Is Dimitri really so far gone? Felix lets the point of his own sword scrape the ground. “I’m not doing this. If you want me dead so badly, you’ll have to stab me in the back like a coward.” The words surprise him even as they come out of his mouth. He hates the idea that deep down, he still believes that the boy he used to adore is in there somewhere, that Dimitri wouldn’t kill him; hope is dangerous. But it’s difficult to think otherwise when he turns his back on Dimitri and walks away.

He expects a protest, an argument, some growled retort. Expects that, perhaps, Dimitri might grab him and force him to stay.

Instead, all he hears is a strangled sound and a horrible, horrible clanking thump. No, he couldn’t have…

Felix can’t fight the trembling now, can’t fight the blurring of his vision with unshed tears as he slowly turns. “You  _ idiot _ ,” he whispers, staring helplessly at the figure lying facedown in the dirt, eye hidden now by a mop of tangled blond hair. But nothing can hide the copious stream of blood staining the ground just under that mop, flowing from the body’s throat. Felix shivers with a chill colder than the Gautier winter winds, at a loss.

Any minute now, someone’s going to return to check on them. For all he knows, they’ll think  _ he _ killed Dimitri--he hasn’t exactly been shy about his feelings on the matter of His Highness for the past five years. Even if they don’t necessarily believe it, they’ll have to take him prisoner anyway until they can prove otherwise. And while that way probably lies execution eventually, he has no idea what happens if Dimitri stays dead for that long while Felix lives. He has no idea what’s happening in the first place, much less how it  _ works. _

All he knows is that the day resets when they both die here on this battlefield.

In the distance, he can still see the dust rising from the retreat of the Imperial rank and file, those not important enough to waste warping magic on. And when he catches up to them, he doesn’t bother to hide his approach. He charges into their ranks with a wordless roar of grief and fury, with the Boar Prince’s last stand unshakable in his mind’s eye, intent on taking down as many of them as he can before they oblige him with merciful death.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Dimitri, stop.” Anger finally bubbles over into Felix's words, but the prince isn’t the target of his ire, for once. He has no idea what he’s supposed to do about this, and the overwhelming frustration--with Dimitri, with himself, with his father, with all of Faerghus--rises in him like a volcano’s innards ready to erupt. “It isn’t selfish to be at your wit’s end, but you have to let go of the dead. Did you ever stop to think that maybe the reason you can’t die is to force you to face the living?”
> 
> Dimitri stares at him, and his eye seems hollow. “”If that is so, then why can’t you die?”
> 
> “Isn’t it obvious, boar?” Felix’s mouth outruns his thoughts, if only for a brief moment. “You need me. And I-- ...whatever. We have a battle to win. You’re the one who insisted on fighting it, so get up and prepare.”

The thanks Felix mutters to the Goddess when he wakes this time are the most fervent prayer he’s ever said in his life.

He doesn’t have much time to dedicate to them, though, before he hears heavy footsteps swiftly approaching and Dimitri barges into his tent, already fully armored, though unarmed--not, Felix thinks, that it matters much. The prince hardly needs weapons to kill. Felix gets to his feet quickly, instantly alert. “What is _wrong_ with you?”

“Come with me.”

“I’m not going anywhere until you listen.” The sight of Dimitri standing there, talking-- alive-- makes it hard to put the image of the same man bleeding out on the ground out of his mind. He turns away, busying himself with brushing out and tying back his hair, donning his coat and armor while he talks so he doesn’t have to look at Dimitri’s face. Unoccupied, his hands will shake, and he can’t have that. “I don’t understand you. We _had_ our freedom from this curse and you threw it away--for what? Another chance at a battle we’ve already won? Do you really think you can somehow stop her from retreating, with a mob of those masked mages at the ready? Face it, boar, we tried it your way and it failed.”

Dimitri watches him for a long moment, and though he doesn’t turn to look, he can feel that heavy gaze on his back. He hates that it’s making him nervous, and that he’s fighting the urge to draw steel just to feel comfortable in his own tent. And he hates that his heart is such a hypocrite, trusting and distrusting the prince all at once.

Eventually, Dimitri says, “How long did you wait?”

Felix blinks, pausing partway through buckling on his breastplate. “...not long. It didn’t take much to catch up with the retreating Imperials.”

“And they...killed you?”

“Yes,” Felix snaps. “That’s what enemy soldiers do.”

“...what a wasted effort.” The prince mutters it almost under his breath, giving Felix a glance that’s almost accusatory before turning away.

Felix rounds on him fast enough to make his half-donned armor clatter. “You’re unbelievable. Are you telling me you would rather I left you...left you there, while I took the blame for ending the royal line? You think it was easy for me to--” He shuts his mouth abruptly with a click of his teeth and huffs out a breath.

Silence, until Dimitri nods at nothing and insists, “I know. I _know!_ I will. I swear it.”

“I don’t have time for this.” Felix goes back to buckling on his armor with sharp, swift movements, mostly to give himself an excuse not to watch the prince talk to shadows. By the time he’s finished, Dimitri is pacing back and forth, clenching and unclenching gauntleted fists. “How many times are you going to drag us back to Gronder Field before you get it through your thick skull that we _shouldn’t be here?_ ” Felix says. “Take this curse as a sign from the Goddess, if you won’t take it from me.”

“The Goddess would never be so cruel. This is my own doing.” Dimitri goes still. “They are...so loud, now. Each time I fail, their demands grow more insistent. They will not allow me to rest until I have avenged them, and I can bear this torment no longer!” Felix’s breath catches and his hand strays to his hilt as the prince steps toward him in a rush and grabs him by the arms, but it’s not an attack. It’s a plea. “You must come with me to Enbarr. Today. Now.”

“Get off me.” Felix tries to pull away, but for a moment, Dimitri’s grip might as well be iron shackles. Only after Felix glares up at him with an urgent fury masking his fear does Dimitri release him, stepping back with an air of apology, although he makes none. “We can’t possibly march to Enbarr today. Or have you forgotten that Imperial forces and an impenetrable fort stand between it and us?”

Dimitri shakes his head; Felix isn’t sure how he can possibly see, with his hair loose and falling into his one good eye, completely unkempt. The thought reminds him of a tangled, gold-spun mane matted with blood, and he swallows, clenching his jaw. “Not the army,” says Dimitri. “Just the two of us.”

Felix rubs his face with both hands. “And how exactly do you propose we get _into_ Enbarr, much less into a position to assassinate the Emperor? Assuming that is where she’s retreating to, and assuming our army wins the battle here without us. These aren’t safe assumptions.”

Dimitri literally growls at him. “Figure something out. They will wait no longer, and neither can I.”

“You’re asking the impossible,” Felix argues, but the prince cuts him off with a savage gesture.

“I am not _asking_.”

“Then you’ll have to tie me to your horse. Otherwise, you’re on your own.”

Dimitri blinks at him, jarred out of his increasing agitation. After a pause, he huffs in what Felix would almost call a chuckle, and it’s Felix’s turn to blink in surprise. “If you were anyone else…” The prince trails off and sighs deeply. “Very well. Once more to battle, then.” It sounds to Felix like he dredged those words up from the bottom of his own grave.

* * *

Later that day, when a mage’s bolt of lightning catches him in the back while he’s busy driving his blade into Brigid’s princess and then she finishes him off with her spear and a vicious battlecry, Felix finds himself wondering whether Dimitri would make the same choice he did, given the chance to leave Felix for dead and move on. He doesn’t live long enough to reach a conclusion.

* * *

Felix expects another intrusion when he wakes in his tent this time, but Dimitri’s absence stretches from minutes into over an hour, until he gives in and emerges into the camp to find out what fresh new problem the prince is probably causing. He finds Ingrid keeping a nervous guard outside Dimitri’s tent; Dedue must be asleep. “Felix!” she breathes when she sees him. “Thank the Goddess.”

“No one ever says that unless they want something.” He glances from her to the tent’s flap and back. “Is he in there?”

She nods, fingers worrying at the edge of her cape. “He is, and he won’t come out, no matter what we say.”

“Then drag him out kicking and screaming. What do you need me for?”

She gives him a reproachful look. “First of all, _no one_ is going to treat His Highness in such a disrespectful manner. Second--” She sternly talks over his scoff-- “ _Second_...sometimes he calls for you. Or at least says your name. We didn’t think it wise to pry, so we just waited for you.”

A queasiness clenches at his gut. He should never have left Dimitri alone for so long. Not after--

He brushes past her into the tent without another word. By all rights, Dimitri’s tent should be the grandest and most opulent of them all, with every convenience and luxury the army can spare. Instead, it’s spartan, practically empty, and it’s so spacious as to magnify the emptiness until Felix feels like a tiny mouse entering the lion’s den. It isn’t as though Dedue and the others haven’t tried over and over again to convince Dimitri to accept the comforts his station affords him. He always refuses.

The prince is hunched over on his knees on the floor, gauntleted hands clutching at his head--no, Felix realizes, he’s covering his ears. Mumbling incoherently, eye squeezed shut. “What are you doing?” Felix asks, but Dimitri doesn’t seem to hear him. “Answer me, boar.” Still nothing.

 _Is this it?_ he wonders. _Is this when we lose him for good?_ In some ways, that would be easier. Easier than all this uncertainty, the pain of Dimitri’s constant presence after grieving his loss twice over already. But Felix can’t do it a third time. He doesn’t have it in him to grieve for Dimitri anymore, not this soon. Maybe not ever again. In a flurry of motion he surges forward to crouch beside the prince and shake him hard by the arm. _“Dimitri._ ”

When Dimitri’s gaze wanders up to meet Felix’s, his eye is empty. Felix isn’t sure he even recognizes him at first. He straightens and backs away, arms crossed as though they might protect him from whatever storm is brewing here. “I _said_ , what are you doing? The whole army’s having a fit.”

“Who cares?” Dimitri’s voice comes out low and gruff. “What does it matter?”

“It matters.” Felix swallows. “What’s the matter with you?”

Dimitri doesn’t react to the words at all. Instead, he rolls off his knees onto his back and just lies there, staring at nothing. “When will this nightmare end?”

“Never, if we don’t do something about it.” He can see Dimitri’s eye roaming back and forth, as though the tent were crowded. _Now what?_ “Get up. You need to eat something.”

“Felix…” But nothing follows.

Felix feels like his mind is blank, like panic has pushed every thought from his head. He acts on pure instinct, kneeling again and grabbing the prince by the shoulders. “Hey! Pay attention to _me._ I’m the only important one here. Understand?”

For the first time this morning, Dimitri’s eye truly focuses on Felix as he lifts a hand to grasp his arm. “You’re really here.”

His grip is too tight, but Felix doesn’t care right now. “Yes. Will you listen now?”

Dimitri holds on like a drowning man. “I cannot do this, Felix. No more. They are deafening now, desperate, and I...I have failed them. Why can I not simply die?”

“Stop talking like that.” Felix doesn’t pull away, this time; the physical contact seems to be helping. “It’s your army you need to worry about now, not the dead.”

“But they speak the truth.” The bitter words fall from Dimitri’s tongue like ashes. “I _am_ weak. Useless. Yet they persist. _I_ persist. I know it is selfish of me to wish otherwise, but I can stand this no longer.”

“Dimitri, _stop._ ” Anger finally bubbles over into his words, but the prince isn’t the target of his ire, for once. He has no idea what he’s supposed to do about this, and the overwhelming frustration--with Dimitri, with himself, with his father, with all of Faerghus--rises in him like a volcano’s innards ready to erupt. “It isn’t selfish to be at your wit’s end, but you _have_ to let go of the dead. Did you ever stop to think that maybe the reason you can’t die is to force you to face the living?”

Dimitri stares at him, and his eye seems hollow. “”If that is so, then why can’t you die?”

“Isn’t it obvious, boar?” Felix’s mouth outruns his thoughts, if only for a brief moment. “You need me. And I--” _Oh._ “...whatever. We have a battle to win. You’re the one who insisted on fighting it, so get up and prepare.”

Dimitri’s eye closes; he doesn’t seem to have registered the abrupt course correction. “Go. Leave me.”

Felix gapes down at him, a flash of disbelieving fury crossing his face. “Is this some kind of joke?” He stands and tries to pull the prince up with the arm he was clinging to, but Dimitri just lets go, as though his hands simply run out of strength. “So, what, you’re just going to lie here and wallow in your misery while we fight? Morale will be in the gutter. And the blood of every Kingdom soldier who dies will be on your hands.”

“My hands are so stained with blood by now that it hardly matters.”

Felix rubs his face. “And what about Edelgard? What happened to your obsession with disemboweling her personally?”

Dimitri growls, but he doesn’t even open his eye. “I am a failure in every sense of the word. I have failed the dead, failed my people. Failed my army. Now I fail even to _die_ properly. There is no sense in continuing any of it.”

Felix has no idea what to say to that. He’s hesitant to leave, fearing that Dimitri will lose track of the living world again, but he doesn’t have a choice. If the prince won’t lead the army, it falls to Felix to do it for him. Like hell he’s going to let _Gilbert_ take command. “...fine. Stay here. We’ll march without you. I’ll tell them...I don’t know. Something.”

He lingers, giving Dimitri a chance to change his mind. But of course, he doesn’t. Stubborn boar. Felix turns and pushes his way back outside before he can convince himself to give up on this whole thing and send the army back to Fhirdiad. Or leave them behind entirely. He’s not _quite_ ready to write the prince off as a lost cause, despite what he’s been telling everyone--and himself--for years now. Curse this treacherous seed of doubt that’s sprouted and spread its tendrils into his heart without his permission.

He doesn’t yet have the courage to admit to himself that what he’s really always wanted was _his_ prince back.

* * *

As Felix predicted, morale is low for the Kingdom this time around. As violent and terrifying as Dimitri is on the battlefield, many of his soldiers take it as a sign that their rightful king is a true warrior, worthy of the Blaiddyd name. They don’t see what Felix sees in the cathedral late at night. They weren’t there on the western plains. But regardless of why, the prince’s absence saps the troops of their enthusiasm.

At the same time, it also means they don’t have to bother fighting the Alliance. Felix has never understood, in all these repetitions, why Dimitri insists on pissing Claude off by failing to differentiate between the enemy and a force that _already agreed_ to ally with them and, at worst, is here as a neutral third party. The Alliance army holds back every time, waiting to see which way the wind blows, and it’s only Dimitri’s erratic, mindless charge that puts them in his path; nothing but wheat to be reaped, to him.

Felix doesn’t have the skills or motivation to actually parley with Claude, but he manages to keep from engaging the man’s troops, and he thinks the battle is actually going well for once. It’s pathetic to think they ended up in a _better_ position with their leader missing...or so he thought. It turns out that Dimitri’s rampage has been vital for cutting down the Empire’s numbers enough to force their retreat. Without him, Hubert and his parade of creepy mages end up trapping Felix, Sylvain, Annette, and their battalions between a squadron of Imperials and a wall of flames. By this point, the Alliance has advanced to aid them, but it’s too late. Felix has no choice--he faces the Emperor down himself, this time, and prays that he was wrong and Dimitri was right, for once. Maybe killing her _will_ stop this madness, who knows?

She watches him with perfect poise as they circle each other warily. “I must admit, I never expected further resistance from the Kingdom after Dimitri’s execution. Fraldarius and Gautier have been holding out better than I thought possible. My compliments for managing to surprise me.” She sounds like she means it, too. She’s always been that way, forthright with her opinions and absolutely unafraid to speak her mind. Felix respected her for that, back at the academy. He still respects her now, but he can’t respect her crusade to conquer Fódlan, or any of her subordinates.

“I’d be more inclined to accept them if you hadn’t let that awful witch take control of Fhirdiad.” He’s not about to let her know that the prince survived if she doesn’t already. Just in case he somehow manages to pull this off.

“I do what I must.” She offers no excuses, instead simply lifting her sword--the Sword of the Creator, he recalls--and snapping it forward, extending its spine-like blade to whip through the air. He catches it on his shield and the two relics spark as they come into contact, before she yanks her weapon back.

Felix has to admit that he could see why Dimitri would want to fight her himself, if he thought the prince had any sensible reason at all. It’s a thrilling clash, his speed and skill and supplemental magic meeting her sheer power and stalwart defenses halfway. He notices right away that she doesn’t wield that weapon like a swordmaster would; her strikes are too sweeping, lots of wasted movement, counting on a momentum she doesn’t quite have. He remembers that she favored the axe, back in school, and wonders why she switched--he knows for a fact that she has a relic axe of her own, he’s seen it. Wait, how is she wielding another Crest’s relic in the first place?

Sylvain manages to fight his way over to back Felix up just as he’s beginning to flag, but not before Edelgard’s lapdog returns to his usual place at her side. In the end, Felix dies the same way Dimitri always does here--with her glowing blade shoved through his chest, an unfamiliar Crest flaring around her like a menacing halo. “You were a worthy opponent, Felix Fraldarius,” she tells him, as he struggles to breathe and spits blood onto the ground at her feet. “Rest assured that your death will not be in vain. I will see your people through to a better Fódlan.”

“Glad their...corpses will be around...to see it,” he mutters.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I am exhausted, Felix.” Dimitri looks it, too. “I have nothing left to offer you but my blade. You were right--I need you. I need you to tell me what to do. How to make this stop. Please.”
> 
> “Don’t patronize me,” Felix snaps, fighting off a nauseating wave of déjà vu. He suddenly feels like he’s seventeen and quivering with rage at the way no one else sees the real Dimitri behind that polite mask, the empty eyes and soulless smile. As much as the prince’s state horrified Felix when they found him, at least it was raw and real, the facade scoured away by five years of slaughter and solitude. At least then, Felix knew he wasn’t going mad.

Dimitri doesn’t know how long he lies there staring at the tent’s ceiling after Felix is gone. He hears the army move out and doesn’t argue when Glenn chews him out for giving up, or when his father wails in his agony, asking _why? Why, my son, do you abandon us?_

He thinks there are more of them now than there ever were before, the ghosts. Faceless and nameless, but all urging him onward in a desperate susurrus. Perhaps they’re all the souls Edelgard has condemned to untimely deaths, coming to him for recompense because there is no one else who can help them. Or perhaps they’re...copies of the ghosts that have plagued him for years, versions of them from each world in which he’s died, all joining together in the present with a chorus of pleas and threats. Or simply all the lives he himself has taken, finally catching up to him. He can sense them like shadows in the corners of his tent, shadows outside in the camp making faint outlines against the canvas walls. Closing in on him, slowly but surely.

He wishes Felix would come back.

Eventually, quiet footsteps crunching on the grass outside join the cacophony. He would have noticed (he hopes) if the army had returned. More out of reflex than anything, he pushes himself up off the floor and snatches up Areadbhar on his way through the flap. “Who’s there,” he growls.

He sees no one. But of course, he has a rather significant blind spot. He only has enough time to hear the footsteps again, sprinting now, before something tackles him from behind and plunges a dagger into his back, through the cracks in his armor. With a grunt, he falls to his hands and knees as a furious, almost childlike voice screeches, “I will never forgive you!”

 _I will never forgive you._ For a moment he wonders whether it truly is someone else saying it, or whether it’s his own mind, his own heart, his own past self. But the pain flooding him is very real, as is the weakness spreading through his limbs, the numbness that sends his lance clattering to the ground. The weight on his back doesn’t diminish--his attacker clings to his shoulders and yanks the dagger out. “I’m going to do to you what you did to _my brother!”_

 _So. Death comes no matter what I do. Even when I do nothing at all._ “I do not remember your brother,” he says, and it’s true; he’s probably killed hundreds of brothers by now. But he does remember her, now, faintly: the orphaned girl who begged to join them. A ruse, after all. He can’t summon the strength to be angry about it. “But I understand vengeance all too well. Strike me down, then.”

“I thought you were supposed to be a _king_ ,” she spits back. “What kind of king stays behind while his people march to their deaths? You’re nothing but a monster.” With a strangled cry she thrusts the dagger in again.

His body shudders and gives out, but even as he collapses, face pressed to the trampled grass, he hardly feels the pain anymore. In his body, at least. Images pass behind his eyes of all the times he’s watched his soldiers--his people--his _friends_ die bloody deaths, over and over.

Ingrid, whose loyalty could outshine the sun, whose faith in him far surpasses anything he’s ever earned, swooping down from the sky to take a barrage of arrows meant for him. Sylvain, who takes care of them all in his strange way, whose steadfast friendship warms the prince’s heart even on the coldest of days, galloping at full speed into the flames to get everyone to safety but never riding back out. Dedue, his stalwart rock who never wavers, who’s saved him in more ways than he can count, standing firm at his side to protect him until those Imperial cowards felled him with dark magic that left only a desiccated corpse in his place.

And Felix...Felix, who has stayed with him throughout this endless trial despite years of hatred for him, who followed him into death’s embrace rather than leave him to his ignominious fate. Felix, who would rather die on his feet with a sword in his hand than live to abandon his beliefs. Dimitri’s watched Felix die countless times, and not once has he seen a single hint of despair or self-pity in those razor-sharp eyes, no matter the odds. Dimitri may well be the strongest person in the world, but his physical strength doesn’t hold a candle to the force of Felix’s will.

 _Nothing but a monster, am I?_ “Yes,” he murmurs. “I know.”

_Please, Felix. Stay alive. Move on without me. I cannot bear another moment of this...nor can I bear the thought of dragging you into hell with me._

_Too late,_ says Glenn.

* * *

When Felix wakes, Dimitri is already here. At least, he assumes it’s Dimitri; for all he knows it could be a boulder draped with the prince’s voluminous cape, as hunched and curled into himself as Dimitri is sitting a few feet away, head bowed, facing away from him.

Felix closes his eyes again, lightly thumping the back of his head on the floor beneath him. Why won’t this _end?_ “Well? What now, boar?”

 _“Felix.”_ Dimitri whirls, nearly knocking himself over in his rush. His eyes are red and puffy, his voice hoarse. “Thank the Goddess.”

“I thought you said the Goddess would never be this cruel.” He sits up with a soft groan, pushing unruly hair out of his face. When was the last time he saw Dimitri cry? Not since...not since before the Western Rebellion. He feels abruptly cold. “How did you die _this_ time? You were nowhere near the action.”

“An assassin--the girl…” Dimitri shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. Felix, please. I beg of you. Do something.”

Felix picks up his hairbrush in a tight fist and in his mind’s eye he can clearly see himself launching it directly at Dimitri’s head with all his strength. It’s not as satisfying as if he’d really done it, but he contents himself with vicarious daydreaming for now. “Do something? _You’re_ the one who’s been doing nothing. I faced the Emperor for you, while you were busy getting assassinated and feeling sorry for yourself--and of _course_ an assassin in the camp matters!”

“I…” Dimitri sighs. “No, I-- Forgive me, that is not what I meant.”

 _Forgive me?_ Felix blinks. When was the last time he heard the prince say _that?_ Definitely not in the time since they found him holed up and murderous at the monastery. “Then what did you mean,” he asks, flat as a pancake. He refuses to let this stupid flicker of hope start a fire that will blind him to the truth of what Dimitri has become.

“I am exhausted, Felix.” He looks it, too. “I have nothing left to offer you but my blade. You were right--I need you. I need you to tell me what to do. How to make this stop. _Please._ ”

“Don’t patronize me,” Felix snaps, fighting off a nauseating wave of déjà vu. He suddenly feels like he’s seventeen and quivering with rage at the way no one else sees the real Dimitri behind that polite mask, the empty eyes and soulless smile. As much as the prince’s state horrified Felix when they found him, at least it was raw and real, the facade scoured away by five years of slaughter and solitude. At least then, Felix knew he wasn’t going mad.

To hear civilized words out of Dimitri now feels like a slap in the face. “And don’t put the responsibility for your actions on me,” Felix goes on, his voice raising. “You’re always doing that, blaming other people for your atrocities. Edelgard, the dead, now me. I won’t be a part of your mission to destroy what little dignity you have left.”

Dimitri recoils as though Felix really did hit him with the brush. Felix clenches both hands in his hair. What is he supposed to do with this sudden change? It pulls on strings in his heart that he’d thought were long severed. “Ugh, don’t...look at me like that. I’m sorry, all right? I’m not exactly having the time of my life, either.”

Something subtly softens at the edges of the prince’s expression. “No, do not apologize. You’re right. You’re...always right.”

“Far from it,” Felix mumbles, but he can’t claim a lack of surprise at this turn.

“...all my life, I’ve felt helpless.” Dimitri’s words sound as if they’re drifting to Felix on the wind, rather than coming from someone sitting not three feet away. “In Duscur--no, even earlier. Born to crushing responsibility, knowing I must rule before I knew how to count to ten. I could do nothing to stop the Tragedy, nor Edelgard’s betrayal, nor the fall of Fhirdiad. Nothing to...control myself, to rein in the beast that lives within me. I am nothing but a...a leaf floating down the river, buoyed only by the whims of others, forever one mistake away from drowning and being swept away into the sea.”

If Felix didn’t know Dimitri so well, he might think this was some kind of joke. He never knew this about the prince--well, of course he didn’t, he’s gone out of his way to avoid the man for years. “Spare me the theatrics,” he says, shifting into a more comfortable position. “You’re one of the most powerful people on the continent, you’re far from _helpless._ ”

“And yet, my throne eludes me.” Dimitri shifts, too, an almost subconscious mirror to Felix’s movement. “Were I truly the sort of man who should be king, I would not have abandoned my people in their time of greatest need. I am but a weapon, a bringer of death. It is all I know how to be, anymore.”

“We’re all weapons,” Felix tells him, and it comes out gentler than he expected. “You think I have the faintest idea how to care for a dukedom? I was never supposed to inherit. I’ve trained for nothing but war my whole life. People like my brother and Ingrid dress it up with unattainable ideals, but a knight is just a weapon, too. But a weapon with a will of its own doesn’t need to let someone else wield it. You’ve _chosen_ that.”

“A will of my own?” Dimitri laughs. It sends chills down Felix’s spine. “I have done nothing but what was demanded of me. By my uncle, by the Church...even the dearly departed have more will than I. Perhaps you were correct all along. Perhaps _Dimitri Blaiddyd_ has been gone for a very long time, and I...I don’t know who I am at all.”

“Neither do I.” But a curious thing dawns on Felix then, as he turns away. This isn’t, as he first thought, the same mask that hid the Boar Prince at the academy. These words sound truer than the hollow imitations Dimitri used to spout at school. They’re still rubbed raw enough for Felix to see the scars they bear. “If you’re looking for an answer from me, you won’t get one. If you really think you haven’t been making your own decisions, then make one now. Answer the question yourself.”

“Felix…”

“What?”

“...nothing.”

The irony in his irritation at this response is mostly lost on Felix, but he isn’t about to play this game with Dimitri, coaxing the words out one at a time. He doesn’t have the patience. “Then stop wallowing and prepare for battle. You have an Emperor to kill, don’t you?”

Dimitri’s brows lift. “Yes, I...I suppose that I do.” He stands, hesitates, and then he offers a gauntleted hand to help Felix up. “ _We_ do. If you are still willing to aid me.”

Felix almost chokes with the intensity of the memory that rises unbidden in his mind, as he looks up at Dimitri and sees hints of the prince he used to know in the eye filled with a simple plea, an open trust. Once, when they were young and foolish and happy, the two of them climbed a tree, and Felix slipped on a patch of ice and fell. It wasn’t far and he wasn’t hurt, snow cushioning his fall, but he cried anyway, jarred into it by the unpleasant surprise. Dimitri scrambled back down and ran to him, blue eyes wide with worry--the prince never chided him or made fun of him when he made mistakes, or when he cried--and reached down to help him up once he was satisfied that Felix wasn’t injured. At the time, Dimitri was still learning to control his strength, so when Felix took his hand, he pulled too hard and _both_ of them ended up in a pile of limbs on the ground, in the snow. Felix’s tears turned into laughter abruptly, even as _Dimitri_ started to tear up while he apologized profusely. They ended up lying there under the tree for a little while, making snow wyverns and chatting about whatever inanity children chat about.

“...obviously,” he mutters, unable to look the prince in the eye anymore as he takes the hand and, with it, the help.

“Thank you, truly.” Dimitri doesn’t let go immediately, making Felix’s refusal to meet his gaze much more awkward. He sandwiches the hand between his own, squeezing lightly. “I...I understand how ungrateful I have been. How painful it must be for you and the others, to reach out over and over again only to meet the ragged edges of this empty shell that I have become.” From the sound of his voice, Felix thinks the prince might cry again, and he tenses. He has no desire to witness that. “And yet you still fight under my banner, still stand by my side.”

“What else are we supposed to do?” Felix asks, now more sharply than he would have liked. “Give in to the Empire? Everyone here would rather die. And you’re the king, whether you like it or not.” He’s tempted to pull his hand away, but he doesn’t. He’s asked himself this question a thousand times: why hasn’t he left? Why continue to follow the Boar Prince, knowing what he does? He’s one of the best swordsmen on the continent. He could easily make a fortune as a mercenary. So why stay? He knows there’s more to the answer, but he shies away from it.

“I am no king.” It sounds like a mantra at this point, like it comes out of Dimitri’s mouth automatically. “Would a king allow his closest friends to die at his command, with not a shred of regard for their loyalty or their lives? I never wanted anyone to make sacrifices for me...” His gaze is distant, now. Distracted. “I cannot be what anyone expects of me, anymore. Living or dead.”

A hundred disbelieving, barbed responses sit at the tip of Felix’s tongue but he swallows them all, forcing himself to think for once before he speaks. “...fine. If you want me to tell you what to do, then leave this battle to the Alliance and march back to Fhirdiad.” It would mean abandoning their would-be allies to fight alone, but at this point Felix could not care less.

Dimitri stares into space, clenching his jaw, and the silence stretches almost unbearably. Finally, just as Felix is about to leave him standing there, he croaks out in a strangled voice: “All right.”

* * *

When the scout gallops back with the frantic news that they’ve spotted Imperial banners in swift pursuit, Felix knows it means that Edelgard crushed the Leicester army. So quickly, too. He can’t say he’s all that surprised. He didn’t expect the Emperor to come after them, though. Maybe he should have.

He also doesn’t expect Dimitri to sound more or less coherent as he gives the order to stand firm and assume battle formations. Until just now, he isn’t sure he’d have put money on the boar remembering that battle formations even existed. He tries to tell himself it’s pathetic to have such low expectations that the lack of feverish ranting is something to praise, but he doesn’t really believe that. Dimitri is...trying.

Trying isn’t enough to save them.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That plaintive, desperate tone deals the final blow to the dam holding back the torrent of things Felix has thought but never said, seven years’ worth of torment and fear spilling out in a flood; perhaps some part of him hopes it will wash him away. “You’re so full of it, it sickens me. I was there at the Western Rebellion, boar, and I’ve been here watching you act the animal ever since, and not once has my presence done a single thing to stop you or even slow you down. Now I’m supposed to believe I’m suddenly so helpful?”
> 
> The look on Dimitri’s face makes him want to puke. Others might see a kicked puppy begging for mercy, but Felix can see past that to the emptiness, the grim acceptance behind it. “Stop looking at me like that! I’m not some kind of savior, I’m not the Goddess handing out absolution whenever it’s convenient for you. You never listen, never. It’s pointless to try with you.” He has to believe that. If it isn’t, then what the hell has he been doing for seven years?

“I can’t  _ believe _ this.”

Dimitri wakes to the tune of Felix storming into his tent. It’s somehow comforting.

“Get up,” Felix snaps. Yes, it’s a comfort: the way Felix’s eyes darken when he’s livid like this, the way his dark hair frames his face and softens the edges of his anger as it spills from the remains of its ponytail. It’s familiar, like a rock Dimitri can use to steady himself when he’s adrift in a sea of despair. “Did you hear me, boar? I  _ said _ , get up. I’ve had enough of this.”

Dimitri obliges him, sitting up and rubbing the sleep out of his eye while Felix paces. “I am out of ideas.”

“You must have been right all along.” Felix’s mouth twists as though the words taste like ash. “We  _ have  _ to kill Edelgard this time.”

The ghosts clamor in a sudden rush,  _ kill her, KILL HER,  _ but Dimitri focuses instead on the rhythmic sound of Felix’s steps as he moves back and forth, back and forth, across the tent. “How?”

“ _ Be better. _ ” Felix stops and draws his blade, holding it by his side. “Be stronger. Win.”

Dimitri growls, hunching over. “Do not jest with me, Felix. Do you think that if it were within my power to crush her bones to dust, I would not have done so a thousand times over already?” 

“Please.” Derisive, as Felix snatches one of the prince’s spare spears from where it rests and tosses it to Dimitri. He has just enough wherewithal to catch it, mostly by reflex. “If you were in as good a fighting form as you were at the academy, this would be a cakewalk for you. Your form is sloppy, you don’t pay attention, and you rush off by yourself. You rely on your strength too much and your skill too little. Of  _ course _ you can’t beat her like that.”

Dimitri blinks. Was there a compliment in there? Well, a compliment for a desperate facade of a man who no longer exists, at least. “I have no excuses.”

Felix scowls. “Good. Now get up. We’re going to spar until you get your act together. I don’t care if it takes all day.” Dimitri scoffs, but Felix takes a step toward him. “You’d rather let her defeat you for the rest of eternity?” He gestures with his sword. “On your feet.”

The prince sulks for a moment, but he supposes it’s better than doing nothing and getting lost in his own mind for hours. He stands, and the two of them head outside into the warming spring morning, immediately attracting attention as they square off. Dimitri doesn’t like all the eyes upon them, upon  _ him _ , but soon he’s settled into the familiar cadence of training with Felix and has no more thought to spare for them. He grudgingly admits that this is...enjoyable, and also probably helpful, but after a time he realizes something’s off.

His hand tightens around the spear’s haft. “Do not toy with me.”

Felix doesn’t respond, simply moving into another cagey thrust, another shallow slice of his blade, and after the next few exchanges Dimitri’s sure of it--Felix isn’t fighting to  _ win _ .

“What are you playing at?” he snarls, taking a step forward and drawing himself up to his full, formidable height. Usually, this cows opponents into flinching. Felix just stands there looking up at him with the same readiness, oddly calm for someone who was just raging a few minutes ago. “If you want to fight, then  _ fight! _ ”

Dimitri lunges and takes a wild swing, roaring wordlessly. How  _ dare _ this foe mock him? The voices of the dead echo his own indignance and amplify it; the edges of his vision bleed red, until he can barely remember who it is he’s fighting or why. He lives simply to destroy--

Then, abruptly, a loud clatter and an impact that almost knocks the breath out of him jar him out of it. His vision clears and he’s blinking and breathing hard, on his back on the ground, with Felix standing over him holding the tip of his blade to his prince’s throat. “You see?” Felix’s voice is flat. “Sloppy. Your emotions and that  _ bloodlust _ of yours have no place on the battlefield. Leash the beast, boar, or you’ll never take her down.”

Dimitri struggles with the rising ache for violence in his bones, the needling whispers that urge him to remove this obstacle standing in his way. He closes his eye and breathes, breathes...then, calmer, he opens it again to see that Felix has removed his sword and replaced it with a hand reaching down for him. He doesn’t, or maybe can’t, hide his surprise, but he does take it and get to his feet.

“Again,” Felix says, taking up his ready stance.

So they do it again, and again, and again. Over and over. Felix is relentless and the frustration is maddening. Three times, Dimitri almost gives up. Twice, he almost takes Felix’s head off. But once...once, he wins without losing his temper, long-forgotten muscle memory slowly clawing its way back to the surface. It’s him, this time, standing over the swordsman in victory, his spear hovering but never completing its final thrust. And once is all it takes for Felix to…

To smile. Is he  _ smiling? _ At  _ Dimitri? _

“There,” Felix says. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Dimitri sputters. “But maybe it was just a fluke.” It’s a question disguised as a statement.

Dimitri hesitates, as he pulls his spear back and rests its tip on the ground. _Was it?_ “I don’t know,” he admits.

“Let’s find out, then.” Felix hops lightly to his feet and readies his sword  _ again _ . But this time, a hint of the old, genuine thrill of competition flickers to life in Dimitri’s heart. A part of him warns that they shouldn’t be tiring themselves out before the battle like this, but he’s caught on to what Felix is trying to do and, although he resents it--resents the  _ need _ for it--a fragile hope guides him forward.

* * *

They stop only when Felix is satisfied, and Felix is not a man who is easily satisfied. By the time they’re resting back in the prince’s tent and drinking their fill of water, the entire army is muttering amongst themselves about the unprecedented sparring match and what it might mean. Felix doesn’t care. This was progress, and he’s frankly shocked. He expected to walk away from this disappointed and pissed off, and ready to die once again. Instead, he’s...cautiously optimistic. Still, a restless agitation gnaws at him. Does this mean Dimitri could have reined himself in this whole time and just didn’t? If not, what’s changed?

He pulls off his jacket and lets the breeze from outside cool him off, brushing sweat-damp hair back from his face. He’s perfectly content to let the silence stand; their duels speak for themselves. No need to rehash the obvious.

But Dimitri doesn’t seem to agree. He never does. “Thank you, Felix,” comes his quiet concession.

“I didn’t do it for you,” Felix grumbles, pulling out his haphazard ponytail so he can redo it properly. “I just want to end this nightmare and win the war, that’s all.”

The prince’s lips quirk up in a slight smile. Infuriating. “I see. Nonetheless, I must tell you how much it means to me that you haven’t given up on me. I thought…” He shakes his head. “I have always admired your endless drive. That kind of steadfast resolve evades me, but you…you are like a beacon of light in the darkness, shining steadily no matter how long the night should last.”

_ What the hell is he saying? _ Felix’s agitation stirs like a nest of snakes in his stomach. “Keep your pretty platitudes to yourself, boar.”

“I won’t, and they are not platitudes.” For someone purporting to lack resolve, Felix thinks, he sure doesn’t know when to quit. Dimitri goes on. “Were it not for you, this...experience, this  _ curse _ , would have broken me completely long ago. Surely you know that.”

Felix scowls into his empty cup, berating himself for this treacherous feeling, like a buoyant bubble of air in his chest.  _ You’re just asking for disaster if you believe this is genuine, _ he tells himself sternly.  _ It isn’t. He’s a beast and you’re taming it. Nothing more. _ He says nothing, gritting his teeth.

“Felix, please. I need you to understand--”

That plaintive, desperate tone deals the final blow to the dam holding back the torrent of things Felix has thought but never said, seven years’ worth of torment and fear spilling out in a flood; perhaps some part of him hopes it will wash him away. “There’s nothing to understand. You’re so full of it, it sickens me. I was  _ there _ at the Western Rebellion, boar, and I’ve been here watching you act the animal ever since, and not once has my presence done a single thing to stop you or even slow you down. Now I’m supposed to believe I’m suddenly so helpful?”

The look on Dimitri’s face makes him want to puke. Others might see a kicked puppy begging for mercy, but Felix can see past that to the emptiness, the grim acceptance behind it. “Stop  _ looking _ at me like that! I’m not some kind of savior, I’m not the Goddess handing out absolution whenever it’s  _ convenient  _ for you. You never listen,  _ never _ . It’s pointless to try with you.”  _ I have to believe that. If it isn’t, then what the hell have I been doing for seven years? _

He thought maybe the prince would snap in response. Tear him limb from limb, perhaps, in a final thunderous fury. Lash out. But Dimitri’s voice is soft, his expression unreadable. “I am listening now,” he says. “And you’re trying now.”

“Shut up!” The tin cup flies past Dimitri and smacks against the tent’s center post with a loud thunk. “Nothing I’ve done has made a difference, don’t pretend otherwise. I could never get through to you and you would never even tell me  _ why _ . I thought I meant more to you than that--”

He chokes on his own words as they hang in the air.

“Felix--”

“Don’t say a word. Don’t you dare.” But the dam has crumbled, and it’s too late to take any of it back. “Do you have any idea what it was like when you came back from Duscur? You looked at me like you didn’t recognize me. And then at the rebellion,  _ I _ didn’t recognize  _ you. _ The Boar Prince killed Dimitri and took his place, and no one else could tell. They insisted you were my friend, my prince, but I couldn’t see it. I  _ grieved _ for you.”

For once, the urge to break eye contact and end his tirade before he says too much abandons him. Felix  _ can’t  _ look away, as though his iron will were caught in the magnetic pull of that sky-blue eye. “And now, when I look at you, I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel. Everyone expects me to be a good subject and uphold the oaths I made to you when we were both too young to understand them. Follow you blindly no matter what you do and no matter what it costs. I can’t and I won’t.”  _ But you do, _ he thinks, clenching a fist.  _ You’re still here. What a hypocrite you are. _

Dimitri waits in the following silence, unsure at first whether he’s allowed to speak--which is preposterous, he’s king in all but name. Eventually, “...I would never ask that of you.”

“You  _ already did, _ ” Felix snaps. “Or have you already forgotten ordering me to protect you until you reached Edelgard?”

The prince visibly flinches. “I am...so sorry, Felix. I was…” He curls in on himself, wrapping his arms around his knees. “I was not in my right mind. If there even is such a thing, anymore. When this is over, if you wish to leave, I will not stop you. I will miss you, but I wish you well, whatever you decide. I-- You deserve to be happy. You deserve better than this.”

“You’re missing the point!” The truth is, Felix can’t imagine what his life would be if not this. No--even that’s not quite right. Either he’s lying to himself about what he truly believes in, or…

“Then what is the point?”

“The point is...I don’t know what the point is. Never mind. Forget it.” Felix buries his fingers in his hair and digs them into his scalp. He’s lost the thread, he’s let his emotions rule him, and he can’t take it anymore.

“I cannot.”

Of course. Of course,  _ now _ is when Dimitri wants to listen. “Then what do you  _ want _ from me?”  _ Goddess, I sound like my old man. _

The question gives the prince pause. When he speaks, his words balance carefully on a tightrope neither of them can see but both know is there. “It...is true that, were you to choose to leave, I would not stop you. But I would much prefer it if you stayed. I know that is not a simple request.” He reaches out a hand tentatively, ready to take it back at the first sign that it’s unwanted, but Felix doesn’t move. He barely dares to breathe, when Dimitri clasps his hand, so gently. “And I know that I do not deserve your loyalty. But I wish to.”

“...what’s that supposed to mean?” Felix mutters.

“I wish to...make amends for all the wretched things I have done, but I need your help.”

Felix frowns, the familiar spike of dread making his voice sharper and louder than he means it to be. “I  _ told _ you, I’m not responsible for--”

“I  _ know! _ I know.” Dimitri looks down, distraught. Clearly struggling to find words. Felix’s instincts tell him to cut this conversation off at the pass and leave, before...before what? Before he gets his hopes up only to have them shattered again? He sits very still, instead. “That is not--” Dimitri starts over. “I do not mean to say that I wish this  _ for _ you, nor do I seek your forgiveness. I have wronged...many. This is for Faerghus, for Fódlan. For peace. But…” His eye searches Felix’s face, perhaps for some sign of understanding. Felix has no idea whether he finds one or not. “I truly cannot be what anyone needs me to be, as the...the  _ beast _ I am now. I can neither seek revenge nor rule.” The prince looks down again at their joined hands. “Will you help me be someone who can?”

These words, too, ring with painful truth. Felix wishes they didn’t. He wishes he could write this all off as a flimsy pretense, but he can’t, and the thought of taking on this burden is terrifying. He’s been failing the prince for seven years--nine, really. What makes him think anything will change now? But if he doesn’t try, no one will. He knows this. They all put Dimitri on too high a pedestal. “...I’ll help you become a king for the living,” he says, “but I won’t help you serve the whims of the dead.”

Dimitri’s silent for one moment too many, before he grunts and his grip on Felix’s hand gets a little too tight. “Felix...they need me.”

“ _ We _ need you, boar.” Felix snatches his hand away.

“You don’t understand!” Dimitri’s voice breaks. “I should never have survived, but here I am all the same. Why, if not to carry their burdens?”

“ _ I _ don’t understand? Do you hear yourself? My brother died at Duscur, too, but you don’t see me using his death as an excuse to slaughter people.” Dimitri makes a strangled, frustrated noise, but it doesn’t seem wholly directed at Felix, and that’s  _ worse _ _;_ his patience finally ends. “We’re done here.”

Felix moves to stand, but a gauntleted hand reaches up to snatch him by the wrist. “ _ Please. _ Please don’t leave me here alone with them.”

Felix fights down a kneejerk reaction and drags his other hand down his face. “Fine.” He sits again, wondering just what on earth Dimitri expects him to  _ do _ here. Neither of them has ever been one for small talk or even much for idle conversation, not since they were children.

“Thank you.” Dimitri releases him with a somewhat sheepish look, folding his hands in his lap instead and fixing his eyes on them as some of the tension drains from his posture. “Thank you, Felix. I know that I cannot be the prince you cared for once,” Dimitri says quietly. “But I hope I can become a king that you will come to care for in his stead.”

_ You idiot _ , Felix thinks.  _ I never stopped caring.  _ He’s not sure whether the idiot is Dimitri, or himself.

* * *

This time, Dimitri doesn’t need to ask Felix to stick with him on the field, and Felix doesn’t bother to explain why he’s doing it--no matter how many times Sylvain asks. The two of them are so in sync that even Felix finds it eerie; whenever one of them signals to the other to do something, he’s already doing it. Felix watches closely for signs of mindless rampaging, and several times he steps in to yank Dimitri back from unnecessary carnage--not fast enough to stop him from antagonizing the Alliance, unfortunately--but for the most part Felix has to admit that he’s impressed with how much their sparring seems to have helped. And, he supposes, their talk. Probably.

Felix is just starting to think they might have a shot at ending this once and for all when he feels the telltale tingling of imminent lightning magic, hair standing on end and goosebumps rising along his arms. He whirls, searching the chaos for someone casting their way, knowing Dimitri’s sensitivity to magic is laughable; he’ll never see it coming if the caster’s out of sight. Seeing no one immediately, he focuses all his senses on the levin sword in his hand and feels out a connection to the incoming spell, tracking it back to--

“Get down!” Tackling a Blaiddyd in full battle armor is no easy task, but Felix has sparred enough with Dimitri to know exactly where his center of gravity is. He aims the tackle to put himself between the spell and his prince. The impact with his armor hurts as the two of them tumble to the ground, but Felix barely feels it with the lightning coursing through him, boiling his blood, cracking his bones. He hears himself cry out, hears Dimitri say his name, but he can barely move at all, let alone respond or try to rise. He chokes on each breath he takes, coughs up blood--ah. Another death, then. Distantly, he thinks he should be concerned that death has become routine. As his eyes close and he begins to fade, he’s not sure whether to hope Dimitri pulls through, or hope he doesn’t so they can try again together.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dimitri’s still staring at him--no, not at him, exactly. At his hair. Felix glances up and aside--is something wrong with it? But no, it looks normal to him, hanging down around his face. When it’s dry, it’s perfectly straight, but when it’s damp it takes on a bit of a wave, like his father’s. Like Glenn’s, too. It’s one reason he started pulling it up before letting it dry; he couldn’t stand the thought of looking more like Rodrigue. “What--”
> 
> “Felix,” Dimitri breathes. “You look--”
> 
> “Don’t,” Felix cuts him off with a scowl. “Don’t tell me I look so much like my brother.”
> 
> “Oh, no.” The prince takes a hesitant step toward him and reaches out, but stops short of touching him. “I was going to tell you that you look...beautiful.”

Dimitri doesn’t pull through.

Felix wakes this time to a strange, sinking feeling; an uneasiness that leaves him questioning himself. He has no time to dwell on it, though, because Dimitri storms into his tent a minute later with a snarl on his lips, reddened eyes, and tear streaks on his cheeks. “You  _ said _ you wouldn’t leave me alone with them!” he growls, coming too close to tower over Felix.

“Back off,” Felix mutters, pushing Dimitri aside to wash his face in the basin and wet his hair to make it easier to brush out.

“I will  _ not _ . How could you--”

“I saved your life, you nitwit.” The disquiet grows stronger, and Felix uses the water as an excuse to keep his eyes closed and poke at it. It’s the sacrifice. He always swore he would never sacrifice himself for duty, for loyalty. But there he was on Gronder Field, dying to save his prince, just like he never wanted. Why?

“I know!” Dimitri blanches at his own raised voice and quiets himself with a deep, shaky breath. “You weren’t supposed to  _ die _ doing it. You left me alone, you left me with  _ them _ .”

“You can’t keep doing this, Dimitri!” Felix blinks water out of his eyes and glowers up at the prince. “I can’t be the only thing standing between you and senseless slaughter! Let me guess. I died and your ghosts demanded you avenge me, so you rushed headfirst into enemy lines in a blind fury until it got you killed.  _ Again. _ ”

“I…” Dimitri hangs his head like a dog caught gnawing on the King’s Day turkey. “I cannot deny it.”

“Do I have to beat the temper out of you again?” There’s little heat in his tone, despite the curt words. “Don’t think I won’t.”

“I would never think any such thing.” Dimitri sighs. “You’re right again, of course. I...lost control at a crucial moment, just as you predicted. Do you see now that I am unfit to lead an army, much less rule a nation?”

“No.” Felix surprises himself with the immediate response, and tries to cover it up by turning around to grab a towel. He dries off his face and rubs the towel briskly over his hair. “What I see is progress. ...I’m sorry I snapped at you. You can’t expect to be perfect overnight, that’s not how training works. Unless your name is Sylvain Gautier, I guess.” He rolls his eyes.

When he hears nothing for a moment too long, he pulls the towel back to drape around his shoulders and turns to see Dimitri gaping at him with a weird, moony look in his eye. “What.”

“You...apologized. To me.”

Felix hates how dumbfounded it sounds. Like he’s some kind of vicious bully who never admits he’s wrong. ...granted, he supposes he can’t remember the last time he apologized to the Boar Prince. Maybe never. “Don’t get used to it,” he grumbles, although it’s unconvincing even to his own ears. He’s starting to think he might owe Dimitri another apology or two for his behavior when they were younger. Not that he’s likely to speak them aloud, but...Felix is better with actions than words, anyway.

Dimitri’s still staring at him, though--no, not at him, exactly. At his hair. Felix glances up and aside--is something wrong with it? But no, it looks normal to him, hanging down around his face. When it’s dry, it’s perfectly straight, but when it’s damp it takes on a bit of a wave, like his father’s. Like Glenn’s, too. It’s one reason he started pulling it up before letting it dry; he couldn’t stand the thought of looking more like Rodrigue. “What--”

“Felix,” Dimitri breathes. “You look--”

“ _ Don’t _ ,” Felix cuts him off with a scowl. “Don’t tell me I look so much like my brother.”

“Oh, no.” The prince takes a hesitant step toward him and reaches out, but stops short of touching him. “I was going to tell you that you look...beautiful.”

“I...w-what?” Felix has never felt heat rush up his face all the way to his ears so fast in his life. “You--your mind must be addled from all this pointless dying. Or you’re feverish. Or I hit you over the head one too many times yesterday.”

Dimitri chuckles. “Not at all. You are quite beautiful. I have always thought so, but...we were not on speaking terms when I would have said as much.”

_ Is this a joke? Is he mocking me? _ But he knows better than to think Dimitri, of all people, would mock him. Gently chide, maybe. Express fond amusement. But the prince doesn’t mock anyone; he’s too earnest. “Uh…” Felix busies his hands with pulling the towel from his shoulders and laying it flat across the basin to dry, because he can’t figure out what else to do with them. “Thanks.”

“You are very welcome.” Dimitri’s gaze follows him like a cat about to pounce. “Felix, why  _ did _ you give your life to save mine? You could not have been certain that I would die as well--”

“I know.” Felix turns to face him again, cheeks still flushed. “I’ve been asking myself the same question. The easy answer is that it was instinct. The same thing I would do for anyone--Sylvain, Ingrid, Annette, Mercedes. You have no talent for magic, you never would have noticed the spell until it fried you.”

“And…” Dimitri’s voice is soft, but sure. “Is the easy answer the same as the true one?”

“...no. It’s not.” Felix’s brow furrows. “I told myself I would never become the Shield my father was. The Shield Glenn was. But when we were children, before Duscur...that was all I wanted. To grow up by your side and protect you. I’m sure you remember, I was insufferable about it.”

Dimitri is clearly struggling not to smile. “I remember.”

Felix grunts in acknowledgment. “My mistake was thinking I’d ever changed my mind.”

“Felix…” Now the prince sounds conflicted. “You know that I would never ask you to sacrifice for me, not your life nor your convictions. For all that I’ve spent all these years feeling beholden to my role and my duties, I have always admired you for your ability to break free of yours. You possess a dauntless fire that I lack.”

“Stop trying to flatter me and  _ listen. _ ” He can practically  _ see _ Dimitri hold back a protest-- _ it is not flattery _ , he would insist,  _ it’s all true-- _ so he plows on before it can come out of its own volition. “Do you remember that time in the carriage when we were kids, the day before you left Fhirdiad for Duscur, when you read me some dumb, mushy story where a knight dies for his beloved, and I said I thought that was stupid?”

Dimitri nods slowly. “Not very well, not details, but...I believe so.”

“Well, it  _ was  _ stupid.” Felix shakes his head, mostly at his  _ own  _ stupidity. “Dying for a cause is always pointless when you could stay alive and keep fighting instead. So that’s what I want to do. Keep fighting, to protect you. Oh for the Goddess’ sake, don’t  _ cry _ \--”

Dimitri hastily wipes his eye, as though he definitely was not about to do exactly that. “What are you saying?”

Felix doesn’t pause to gather his thoughts, because he’s not sure he’ll be able to get the words out at all if he does. “I’m  _ saying _ , I still want to be your Shield. Not out of blind loyalty, or because of some oath or the Kingdom’s expectations, or our positions or any of that. It has nothing to do with the prince, or the boar, or my family. I don’t care about duty, I care about keeping you alive. Not with my life--with my sword.”

“Oh…” Dimitri swallows, almost shaking with the effort of holding back tears. Felix thinks that if he has to watch the prince cry one more time, he might throw up. “Of course, I...I would like that, very much, but...Felix, I do not deserve--”

“Shut up!” Felix puts a hand to his head. “You’re right, you don’t. Yet. But you said you were willing to work to make things right and deserve my loyalty, and I’ll hold you to that.”

Now Dimitri’s starting to look like a child opening birthday gifts, and Felix bites back a derisive comment, just this once. “Good. Yes. Please, do. I will work as hard as I must to...to be better, and to make amends. I swear it.”

“Glad to hear it.” Felix finally feels like he’s starting to relax, just a little. Maybe for the first time in nearly a decade. “For starters, you can abandon this fool’s errand you’ve given us and march back to Fhirdiad to get rid of Cornelia. We need a king on the throne to start winning this war, not a disgusting Imperial witch. And you need to make sure that all the lives we’ve lost throwing ourselves at Edelgard weren’t lost in vain.”

Dimitri squeezes his eye shut, and Felix tenses up again. This is the moment of truth, he realizes. This is when he learns whether Dimitri can choose the living over the dead, or whether he’ll be shackled to the past forever. Felix finds his heart racing, for reasons he doesn’t fully understand. He’s been on the cusp of giving up on this man for years. Is a single promise enough to change all that? No, he decides; the promise is just the spoken culmination of all the progress they’ve made here, together. So he waits for his answer, hardly daring to breathe lest the prince mistake his breath for the whispers of a dead man.

It feels like he’s been waiting an eternity when Dimitri finally opens his eye again and says, “It will be done. By nightfall, Gronder Field will be but a memory.”

“...a simple ‘yes’ would have sufficed--” But Felix’s relief far outweighs his urge to complain, and on an impulse of a kind that he’d thought long discarded, he steps forward to throw his arms around Dimitri and press his face against the prince’s chest.  _ Goddess, he’s warm. _ Warm and strong and solid, and Felix has  _ missed _ this so much, though he’d swallow a hot coal before he ever admitted it.

He can feel Dimitri stiffen like a board at the unexpected contact, and he wonders with a spike of anxiety whether he's just ruined everything. He can’t quite bring himself to let go yet, though, and soon Dimitri’s arms wind around him--tentatively at first, then almost crushing, as the prince bows his head to bury his nose in Felix’s dark, damp hair. He doesn’t, or perhaps can’t, hold back a choked sob this time, but Felix lets it slide without comment, closing his eyes instead.

For a moment, he’s eleven years old and clinging hard to Dimitri,  _ his _ Dimitri, his prince who shines like the sun, whose laughter sounds like music, whose bright eyes sparkle like dawn’s light playing over snow. For a moment, Duscur and the Western Rebellion never happened. For a moment, Felix can let himself adore Dimitri again.

But the moment passes. Without letting go or looking up, Felix asks the last question still burning on his tongue. “Did you mean it when you told us that we were nothing more than mere tools to be used and thrown away for your vengeance?”

“No.” The response comes immediately and confidently. “No, Felix, I did not. I was...lost and confused. To be honest, though it was not so long ago, I barely remember it. The days pass strangely for me...even before this curse took hold, I could hardly discern one day from the next. But please...believe that I cherish you all more than I could ever put into words, and I will always be thankful that everyone has stayed with me. Especially you. My...my oldest and dearest friend.”

It’s Felix’s turn to fight back tears, but he’s more successful at it. Still, it takes him a few long seconds to find his voice, and even then all he can say is “...okay.”  _ Okay. _ Things are not yet okay, but for the first time in years, Felix believes that someday, they could be.

* * *

Felix stays there in Dimitri’s comforting embrace for an embarrassingly long time. When he finally pulls away, clearing his throat awkwardly, he doesn’t meet Dimitri’s eye, turning instead to take up his brush and untangle hair that’s at this point almost dry. The prince stays quiet until Felix is finished sweeping his hair back into its usual haphazard style. It might not be pretty, but it keeps his opponents from using his long hair against him in battle, and that’s the important thing. With that thought, he turns back to Dimitri only to be reminded-- “Your hair is a mess. And a hazard.”

“A  _ hazard? _ ” Dimitri scoffs, but ruins it when he ducks his head, bashful. “Come now, that’s an exaggeration!”

“No, it isn’t.” Felix strides over and reaches up abruptly to grab a handful of Dimitri’s hair and pull, ignoring his stammered protests. “If an enemy gets their hands on it, you’re dead. If it covers your eye at the wrong moment, you’re dead. Now sit down.”

The prince does so almost meekly, with a vague pout. “You didn’t have to  _ yank _ it to make your point…”

“Yes, I did.” Felix fetches one of his spare hair ties and brushes through Dimitri’s hair. It’s been so long since he last touched this hair, but it’s still familiar to his fingers--soft, thick strands the color of buttercups, even longer now than they were then. He brushes them away from Dimitri’s face and gathers them at the back of his head, securing them with efficiency, if not elegance. “There. You’re welcome.”

Dimitri reaches back with a hand to pat lightly at his hair, feeling out Felix’s work. “...ah...yes, thank you. I must admit, it  _ is _ easier to see this way.”

“Obviously.” Felix hasn’t quite let the enormity of all this sink in yet. He wishes he’d had more time to come to these realizations about...about himself and Dimitri, before he was forced to confess them. But then, if he had, he might not ever have confessed them at all. He’s still not convinced it was a good idea, but it’s done now, so there’s no use dwelling on it. “Now go suit up so we can get out of here before the Imperial army finds us anyway.”

“Yes, of course.” Dimitri rises to his feet and Felix sees that look in his eye again, the dreamy look that says he’s probably about to compliment him again or something. “Felix…”

“Ugh, stop. You’re about to say something sappy and ridiculous, and I can’t stomach any more. Whatever it is you’re bursting to say, say it after we take back Fhirdiad. Until then, keep it to yourself.”

The prince’s smile is small, but warm and genuine. “Very well. Then instead, all I will say for now is this.” He lays a gentle hand on Felix’s shoulder; Felix resists the urge to back away. Old habits die hard, he supposes, but if he really is going to dedicate himself...his life...to protecting Dimitri, he’ll have to break this one. “If I must be trapped in hell,” Dimitri says, eye glinting with more life in it than Felix has seen from him in years, “there is no one else I would prefer to be trapped with.” Felix almost can’t believe he said it with a straight face. Almost.

* * *

True to his word, Dimitri gives the order to retreat from Gronder Field and march north, back the way they came. Opinions are mixed, but as a whole the army seems to breathe a collective sigh of relief as they put distance between themselves and the Empire’s vanguard. Felix keeps a sharp eye out for the banners that followed them the last time they did this, but no scouts report any such sightings now. Perhaps it’s because they left earlier this time, although not by much. Perhaps it’s a coincidence, something that changed in the Alliance’s tactics somehow that kept Edelgard engaged longer. Or perhaps it’s the hand of the Goddess.

Whatever it is, it sees them safely away. The march is long and tedious, but the territories they cleared of Imperial troops on the way here remain safe enough to ensure they meet no resistance. Each night when they make camp, Dimitri comes to Felix’s tent or vice versa to wait out the first hour or two before sleep. They both expect some disaster to befall them at any moment, but nothing comes. Felix evades Sylvain’s pointed questions; he ignores Ingrid’s attempts to praise him for being civil; he brushes off Dedue’s steady, wary gaze. He’s Duke Fraldarius’ heir and the army’s second-in-command, he doesn’t need a reason to confer with the crown prince. That’s what he tells people when they ask, anyway.

They make it all the way to Fraldarius--true safety--and still, nothing. Felix half expects something absurd to happen here, like his old man losing his mind and murdering them both in a fit of pique, or an avalanche burying them under six feet of snow and rock, or a freak lightning strike, but little by little the constant expectation of death around every corner fades. They spend a few days in Fraldarius discussing plans with Rodrigue and Gilbert, repairing and restocking their gear, and giving the soldiers a much-needed respite after weeks of breathlessly roaming Fodlan in pursuit of Edelgard. Dimitri goes out of his way to offer apologies to the others, and of course they forgive him immediately, and Felix bites his tongue to keep from taking them to task for it. They’re just glad to have a leader who’s capable of smiling and conversation again; they’re willing to overlook his many flaws and sins if it means a comforting return to normalcy. But Felix doesn’t want to tank morale before they even begin lest he invite yet another demise, so he keeps it to himself. For now.

The journey to Fhirdiad is not long. The battle there is even shorter, if hard-fought and dicey. Felix spends it by Dimitri’s side just as he said he would, watching his back, protecting his flank. And although his lance tears through foes with brutal, bloody efficiency just like always, the prince doesn’t lose himself to the sadistic rage Felix has grown to loathe. The deaths are quick and clean, and Dimitri’s eyes are ever on the palace, not on the suffering of the half-dead soldiers he leaves in his wake. Felix tries not to feel like he’s setting down a burden that’s been crushing him since he was little more than a child, with every step they take toward the palace. He tries; but when he doesn’t see the unnatural glow of Cornelia’s strange weaponry trained on him in time, and he only avoids its scathing beam thanks to Areadbhar flying through the air as though it were a mere javelin to smash the machinery, he knows he’s failed.

And just like that, it’s all over. The witch dies with no real resistance; even with all her power and hurtful words, she’s no match for the prince--the  _ king _ \--of Faerghus and his Shield. The rest of the day passes hazily, like a dream. Clearing the palace of the enemy’s last vestiges, walking halls Felix used to know as well as his own home, passing corners where he remembers sitting with Dimitri and reading to each other or watching the snow fall or talking about the future...

And then standing there in the throne room, so empty when they enter, but Dimitri’s presence seems to fill it up. Felix has to reassure him three whole times that yes, the people really do believe in him and they really are waiting for him out there, and yes they really are calling him the Savior King, and if Felix has to listen to  _ that _ nonsense for the rest of their lives he’s going to explode. He doesn’t plan to stick around for the part where Dimitri walks out onto the balcony to Fhirdiad’s raucous cheers, but the instant the prince opens the drapery he looks like he’s about to faint, so Felix nudges him forward and stands there in his shadow until the people have had their fill.

It’s not until nightfall that they have a moment to themselves, both of them avoiding the victory celebrations to find a quieter place. In a hidden little courtyard bathed in moonlight, Felix approaches quietly from Dimitri’s left side. “I figured I’d find you here.”

Dimitri turns. “Oh? Am I that predictable still, after all this time?”

“You’ll always be predictable. To me, anyway.” Felix isn’t entirely certain what he came here to say, if anything, but for once the silence between them is comfortable. Until-- _ predictably-- _ Dimitri breaks it.

“Do you feel it?”

Felix doesn’t ask ‘feel what?’ because now that Dimitri’s called his attention to it... “I do. Either we’re about to die right here on the lawn, or--”

“Or it’s over,” Dimitri says softly, gazing up at the moon. “Did the Goddess find it in her heart to spare us, after all?”

“Who knows. I don’t intend to dwell on ‘how’ or ‘why.’ Whatever changed, it could be anything.”

“It could.” Now Dimitri sounds almost amused, as he turns toward Felix. “But I believe the simple truth is that it is  _ we _ who have changed.”

He’s not wrong, but Felix harrumphs, his breath visible in the cold night air. “ _ I _ haven’t.”

“Ah, of course not. My mistake.” Another brief silence, but Felix can tell that this one is just a pause while Dimitri figures out how to say something that will probably embarrass them both. “What you said back at Gronder, that you still wanted to be my Shield…”

“What about it,” Felix mutters. He was right--embarrassing.

“I...know that you have hated me for a long time, and I certainly do not blame you--”

A flash of annoyance. “I don’t hate you,” he snaps, and then takes a breath, making an effort to soften his tone. “I never hated  _ you. _ I hated the Boar Prince. And if that beast ever makes a return, rest assured I’ll be right there with my blade to handle it.” He turns to look up at Dimitri’s face, framed by moonlight that makes his golden hair shine like a halo. “But I don’t hate you. ...Dimitri.”

Felix almost regrets the words immediately when he sees the prince’s eyes glittering with tears. How many times is he going to have to sit through all this crying? But in a way, it’s reassuring. Felix wasn’t the only one prone to tears when they were young; Glenn used to tease them both about sobbing at the drop of a hat. One of them would start, and it would set the other one off, and--well, they were both completely absurd as children.

“Felix...you have no idea how much it means to me to hear you say that. I had always hoped that you and I might… But I would have accepted it had you truly despised me, though I would grieve the loss of a beloved friend.”

_ I had always hoped that you and I might-- _ might what? Back at camp, Felix had let himself adore the Dimitri he remembered from childhood, as he always had. But they both know that boy is long gone, and Felix realizes with a start that what’s stirring in him now isn’t rose-tinted nostalgia. These aren’t feelings for that princely little angel he lost. They’re for this scarred, weary man standing here now, who clawed his way back to himself in a crucible of blood and fire. Even at his worst, Dimitri was still awe-inspiring. Now, he’s practically mesmerizing, but Felix can see him as a  _ man-- _ not the pure, perfect darling of Fhirdiad; not the rabid, rampaging animal; just a person, an ordinary human being like everyone else. Well...maybe not  _ ordinary. _ But for all that Felix always berated the others for putting the prince on a pedestal, he can see now that he did the same thing. His disillusionment, his simmering fury--he brought them upon himself, with his impossible expectations.

“Is that what we are?” Felix murmurs. “Friends?”

“...forgive me, I...don’t wish to presume.” Dimitri fumbles the words and looks at the ground, as though they tumbled from his tongue and scattered there.

“Stop apologizing.” Felix rolls his eyes. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Oh, I...see.”  _ Then what did you mean? _ The question is clear in Dimitri's eye, but he doesn’t ask it.

“...back at Gronder, you were going to say something nauseatingly sentimental. And I told you to wait until we retook Fhirdiad.” Felix gestures around them with a hand. “Well? Here we are.”

Dimitri doesn’t hesitate for a second, reaching forward to take both of Felix’s hands in his own. “If it is sentimental, so be it. But I lost you once--or rather, I lost myself. I went to a place where you were absolutely right not to follow me. But you helped me pull back from that abyss, and I will be forever grateful that you cared enough not to give up on me. I cannot lose you again.”

Felix goes still. For once,  _ he _ feels like the leaf floating down the river, pulled along its current by something that’s happening so fast he thinks he might be missing it, and Dimitri’s hands are the rock he clings to. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that I will happily,  _ joyfully _ accept you as my Shield,” oh, Goddess, his eyes are watering _again_ \-- “but I beg you: do not die on my behalf. I never want your ghost to haunt me, Felix, and I never want you to feel obliged to do something that opposes your ideals--and I do not wish to survive at your expense. Please...promise me this. That you will live--that we will  _ both _ live to see the future all this bloodshed and torment have bought us. Together.”

Felix takes in a fragile breath and lets it out. He lets go of those hands--that rock--to lift his own so hesitantly, so gingerly, to lightly cup Dimitri’s face and coax him down until Felix can rest his forehead against the prince’s and look him directly in the eye. “...I promise.”

“Thank you,” Dimitri whispers. “Felix…”

“What?”

“I think that I love you.”

Yes, Felix has left the rock far behind and the current has swept him far out to sea. Strangely, now that he’s here, he doesn’t mind at all. “...you’d better.”

In the morning, Felix won’t remember which of them started it. But he will vividly remember the warmth of Dimitri’s lips, how gentle he is in the beginning, how quickly his passion ignites and how effortlessly he lifts Felix into his arms. How Felix wraps his legs around the prince to hold himself aloft, enjoying the opportunity to lean  _ down _ to taste him again. And if the king and his Shield skip breakfast the next day, well--who’s going to tell them no?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with that final chapter, this remix is complete! Thank you for reading! I'm @missdhiarmada on Twitter. :)
> 
> And a huge thanks to @nmmais1 for giving me such a great idea to remix!


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